The Long Way Home

But the problem, while shared, hadn’t been halved. It’d doubled. Then doubled again as the day dragged on. In talking about it, Clara had made it real. She’d given form to her fear. And now it was out. And growing.

Everything fed it. The aromas of the barbeque, the blowsy flowers, the chipped and stained old chairs. The rings, the damned rings. Like at home.

All that had been trivial, that had been comforting and familiar and safe, now seemed to be strapped with explosives.

“Dinner’s ready, Clara.” He spoke the words in his quiet, deep voice. Then she heard his step on the grass moving away from her, and she was alone.

All her friends had gathered on the deck, helping themselves to food. She stood apart, her back to them, looking into the darkening woods.

Then she felt a presence beside her. Gamache handed her a plate.

“Shall we sit?” He motioned to the chairs.

And Clara did. They ate in silence. All that needed to be said had been said.

*

The other guests helped themselves to steak and chutney laid out on the table. Myrna smiled at the weed centerpiece, still amused. And then she stopped smiling and noticed something. It really was beautiful.

Bowls of salad were passed around and Sarah gave Monsieur Béliveau the largest of the dinner rolls she’d made that afternoon, while he gave her the tenderest piece of steak. They leaned toward each other, not quite touching.

Olivier had left one of the waiters in charge of the bistro and had joined them. The conversation meandered and flowed. The sun set and sweaters and light summer jackets were put on. Tea lights were lit and placed on the table and around the garden, so that it looked like large fireflies had settled in for the evening.

“After Emilie died and the house was closed up, I thought we’d had our last party here,” said Gabri. “I’m glad I was finally wrong about something.”

Henri swiveled his satellite ears toward the sound of the name.

Emilie.

The elderly woman who’d found him at the shelter when he was a puppy. Who’d brought him home. Who’d named him and loved him and raised him, until the day she was no longer there and the Gamaches had come and taken him away. He’d spent months searching for her. Sniffing for her scent. Perking up his ears at the sound of every car arriving. Every door opening. Waiting for Emilie to find him again. To rescue him again, and take him home. Until one day he no longer watched. No longer waited. No longer needed rescuing.

He returned his gaze to Rosa. Who also adored an elderly woman and was terrified her Ruth would one day vanish, as his Emilie had. And she’d be all alone. Henri stared and stared, hoping Rosa might look at him and realize that even if that happened, the wounded heart would heal. The balm, he wanted to tell her, wasn’t anger or fear or isolation. He’d tried those. They hadn’t worked.

Finally, into that terrible hole Henri had poured the only thing left. What Emilie had given him. As he went for long, long walks with Armand and Reine-Marie, he remembered his love for snowballs, and sticks, and rolling in skunk poop. His love of the different seasons and their different scents. His love of mud and fresh bedding. Of swimming and shaking with abandon while his legs danced beneath him. Of licking himself. Then others.

Until one day the pain and loneliness and sorrow were no longer the biggest thing in his heart.

He still loved Emilie, but now he also loved Armand and Reine-Marie.

And they loved him.

That was home. He’d found it again.

*

“Ah, bon. Enfin,” said Reine-Marie, greeting her daughter Annie and her son-in-law, Jean-Guy, on the front porch.

It was a bit congested as people milled about saying their good-byes.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir said hello and good-bye to the villagers and made a date to go jogging the next morning with Olivier. Gabri offered to look after the bistro instead of joining them, as though jogging was ever an option.

When Beauvoir reached Ruth they eyed each other.

“Salut, you drunken old wretch.”

“Bonjour, numb nuts.”

Ruth held Rosa and, leaning into Beauvoir, they kissed on both cheeks. “There’s pink lemonade in the fridge for you,” she said. “I made it.”

He looked at her gnarly hands and knew that opening the can could not have been easy.

“When life gives you lemons…” he said.

“It gave you lemons. Thankfully, it gave me Scotch.”

Beauvoir laughed. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy the lemonade.”

“Well, Rosa seemed to like it when she stuck her beak in the pitcher.”

Ruth stepped down the wide wooden stairs of the verandah and, ignoring the fieldstone path, cut across the lawn on a trail worn into the grass between the homes.

Jean-Guy waited until Ruth slammed her front door shut, then he took their bags into the house.

It was past ten in the evening and all the guests had left. Gamache fixed a dinner of leftovers for his daughter and son-in-law.

“How’s work?” he asked Jean-Guy.